Clintasha Ficlets
by Klyntaliah
Summary: Everyone's favorite master assassins in love. My little filing cabinet for Clintasha flashfiction, 1000 words or fewer.
1. Going Home

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.**

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The strong breeze ruffled his hair as he drove down the road in his convertible, top down. It was evening, and his mind was sprinkled with thoughts of home, where he hadn't been in so long. The leather seat felt warm against his back, and the slight vibration of the motor was relaxing. The sun's harsh rays were slightly muted by his sunglasses.

The trip had not left him unscathed. He lightly traced a new cut that extended from his temple down to his jawline. With every new mission came new risks, new injuries, new scars: souvenirs.

And new memories of her.

He glanced down at her. She was relaxing against the headrest, her bright red hair glowing in the setting sun. She hummed softly along to the radio, her slender, delicate fingers tapping the armrest. He was reminded of a moment on the mission when they'd been close, closer than they'd ever been before. He could still remember the feel of her, the fragrance of her hair; a new memory still clear in his mind.

She couldn't know how much this time meant to him; the warm, quiet moments after their missions when he felt closest to her. He wished this moment would never end, and he did his best to capture it in his memory forever.

She surprised him by glancing up at him. He was about to avert his gaze, to pretend he hadn't been staring openly at her, but to his surprise, she smiled. He returned the gesture before she focused her eyes on the road again. He studied her a moment longer, then did the same.

No words had passed between them, but something deeper had. Something he couldn't define. He'd felt it before when he looked at her. He felt it now.

They continued along the road in comfortable silence, each one deep in thought, headed home.


	2. Ballroom

Her eyes sweep the ballroom, searching for him – the man she's here for. Her gaze skims over the carefree couples in formal garb who move gracefully around the room; prancing, spinning, dipping, like waves on a beach. The orchestra plays light music, integrating with the soft swishing of the women's vivid skirts.

"Tasha," Clint whispers in her ear.

She looks at him, and he smiles down at her, his gray eyes catching the light of the lanterns.

"Relax."

"I am relaxed," she retorts, her eyes flicking around the room again.

"Tasha. Look at my hand."

She looks at his hand. She's gripping it so tightly it's turning purple.

She loosens her grip; and realizes she is holding herself rigid. She slackens a little, leaning into Clint.

"That's better."

He touches the side of his face to hers so they're looking to opposite sides, and adjusts his grip on her waist as they sway to the music.

"I haven't danced in a while," she admits. "Not like this."

He chuckles quietly. "I know," he says.

Natasha rolls her eyes, even though he can't see her face. "That bad, huh?"

"No, no, you're doing great," he says quickly. "It's just… you're very tense."

"Well, I'm kinda anxious about the armed ex-KGB assassin who is somewhere in this room," she mutters.

"Well, can you act a little?"

"I am acting," she replies. "I'm acting like I don't totally hate this."

"Hate what?"

"Dancing with you."

She feels him smile, then he draws back, meeting her eyes.

"Do you really hate it so much?"

"Yes."

"Come on, aren't I a good dancer?"

She snorts lightly.

"What?"

"I just think maybe you need to be a little more focused on the mission. We're not on vacation."

"And I think maybe _you_ need to be a little _less_ focused on the mission."

"Why? So I can get myself killed?"

"No. Because this is fun."

She rolls her eyes.

"We don't get to go to a ball every day, so we may as well enjoy it while we can."

"Yeah, and try to forget the fact that we're carrying concealed weapons."

"Right."

"And that someone in this room is trying to kill us."

"Now you're getting it."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe not _totally_ forget it. But just… focus a little more on the party."

"Yeah, cause that's why we're here. To party."

"Exactly."

She can't hold back a small chuckle, and his eyes crinkle up as he grins at her.

She breaks the eye contact to scan the room again, searching for signs of their quarry.

"You're doing it again."

"What?"

"The eye thing. You keep looking around."

"Yes, that's because we're here to locate and take out a criminal, Clint."

"I know, but it's distracting," he complains, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "Can't you just look at me and use your super-spy hearing to listen?"

"Listen for what? Someone who walks like a Russian?"

"Sure."

She gives him a look. "Clint. Focus. This is a surveillance mission, not a date."

"A surveillance mission counts as a date."

Her eyebrows shoot upward in surprise. "Oh really? So that's what you think this is?"

He smiles. "Something like that. Did you think I put on a tux and combed my hair for the Russian guy?"

"Oh my gosh Clint. Shut up." She tries to hide the smile that is creeping across her face.

"You're smiling. That means you're enjoying this."

"No I'm not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

She sighs in annoyance. "Grow up, Clint. We're supposed to be professional. I'm not enjoying this and it isn't a date."

"Right," he says, sounding unconvinced. He whisks her past the orchestra, and she catches the sweet, smoky scent of candles.

They dance in silence for several minutes. Then her eyes dart up to the ornate clock on the wall.

"It's getting close to eleven. We should go. We have to set up before he decides to make his move."

She releases his hand and starts to turn, but his hand tightens on her waist.

"Wait, Tasha."

She looks at him expectantly.

His eyebrows draw together, and his eyes grow pleading and innocent.

"One more dance?"

She sighs, and her eyes rove around the room. They still have five minutes. And their target probably won't act till he knows where they are. Still, they have to be prepared. They shouldn't risk it. Her eyes meet Clint's again, and a mock pout emerges on his lips. She sighs in defeat.

"Fine. One more dance."

He smiles and takes her hand again, and they begin to waltz. He leans his forehead against hers as the music changes, and the mournful sound of a violin strengthens.

Natasha closes her eyes, breathing in the smell of pine wood and candles. The room is warm and tranquil, and for a moment, she feels utterly relaxed, almost drowsy. She moves her hand from Clint's shoulder to the nape of his neck, and her fingers trail upward, toying with the short hairs at the base of his head. She finds herself wishing she could forget about her responsibilities and stay here with Clint forever; and she sighs, lost momentarily in the euphoria of the moment. He chuckles softly, and his hand slips around her waist and settles at her back, pulling her closer.

"Natasha?"

"Hm?"

Clint squeezes her hand.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

She opens her eyes and looks at him. His eyes are twinkling with merriment, and a smile adorns his features.

Natasha raises her eyebrows, and a small smile fights its way across her face.

"Maybe."


	3. Fix You

**Wrote this oneshot a while back and just got around to typing it up. This one barely made the 1000 wd limit at 979 wds. Phew.**

 **Okay, okay, now I've GOT to get off this addicting site and freaking STUDY! Later, people.**

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A soft clattering noise and a muffled curse awakened him. He opened his eyes and rolled over onto his back, heart skipping with hope.

The light was on in the bathroom; the warm yellow glow peered out from under the door. There was a quiet hiss, then a _tsk_ of frustration.

Clint sat up and slipped his legs over the edge of the double bed. He stood and padded across the carpet, ruffling a hand through his hair.

He opened the bathroom door, blinking and squinting when the light hit his eyes

Natasha was sitting on the counter in her underwear, scowling and twisting to inspect a wound in the mirror. Her disheveled tactical suit lay in a heap on the floor, and her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. Boxes of spilling medical supplies and bloody rags lay scattered across the counter around her, and she was struggling to reach an injury on her shoulder blade, muttering under her breath.

Her eyes slid up to Clint's in the mirror, and her face softened as she turned to look at him.

Clint lounged against the doorframe, a smile spreading across his face. "You're back."

Pleasure showed in her eyes. "Guilty as charged."

Clint folded his arms. "How long?"

"Ten minutes?" she estimated.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

The left side of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Thought about it, but you looked so peaceful."

She swung her legs a little, as he looked her up and down. Her lower lip was cut and slightly swollen, and a shallow scratch traced the line of her cheekbone. A neat line of steristrips marked a cut on her eyebrow, and another one marched along a laceration on her right arm. A long gash followed the entire length of her leg from her thigh down to her ankle, and, worst of all, a serious-looking wound on her ribcage was closed by a straggling line of stitches.

Natasha had turned back to the mirror, and was dabbing tediously at the deep cut on her right shoulder blade.

"Philly didn't treat you well, then," Clint observed.

Her eyes met his in the mirror for a split second. "I'll live."

Clint listed his head. "You always do," he said softly.

His partner tossed the tissue aside and held the lips of the cut together. Clint pushed off the doorframe and stepped forward.

"Here. Let me."

She offered him a glance of acceptance, then twisted away from him, exposing a thin gash that ran down the side of her neck. When she turned back, she had a surgical needle threaded with suture, and she passed it to him. Then she swiveled and dropped her legs over the far side of the counter.

Clint stepped closer, and gently brushed her ponytail forward. The cut was deep – clean, long, and fairly straight. The bleeding had mostly abated, but even as he watched, the edges of the cut became tinged with red.

Clint lightly slipped her bra strap off her shoulder and began to stitch.

"Get your target?" he asked, after a moment.

"Just barely," she answered. "They sure work us hard, don't they?"

Clint cocked his head reflectively, making another stitch. "Yeah… I guess they do."

After a minute, he added, "I missed you."

Natasha turned her head towards him and raised her eyebrows, a smile playing at her lips. And Clint understood, without her even making a sound.

She had missed him, too.

Neither of them spoke again until he had finished. He tied the thread off and snipped it close. "You're all fixed up."

She spun back towards him, smirking mischievously. "I'm in your debt," she teased, readjusting her bra strap.

Clint chuckled, leaning his hands onto the counter on either side of her. Then his eyes fastened on the cut on her eyebrow. His hands found her knees, and he slowly eased her legs apart, stepping between so the lip of the counter pressed into his stomach. He took the sides of her jaw in his fingers and gently turned her head over, angling it so the light fell on the wound.

He frowned in concentration, skimming his thumb over the track of steristrips. Her breathing had slowed, and he could feel her watching him.

The scratch on her cheekbone caught his eye, and he tilted her head again, studying the mark in the light. He tipped her chin up next, his gaze locking onto the dark cut on the corner of her plump lower lip.

All her wounds were accounted for now, but he didn't stop his examination. Up close, her skin was flawless, and he marveled at how luminous it was, even in the harsh, artificial light of the bathroom. Gently, he rolled her head over again, letting his eyes drag slowly across her smooth skin, drinking in the sight of her. His thorough gaze searched every inch of her face and neck, from the curve of her cheekbone, to her delicate nose, to her full lips.

"Did I miss anything?"

He met her eyes, and saw amusement twinkling there. She'd arrived at the fact that he wasn't just searching for injuries anymore. He smiled, tilting his head thoughtfully at her. Then he moved in and touched his lips to hers, lightly, so as not to reopen the cut. She inhaled slowly through her nose, and he applied a little more pressure, but the contact was still little more than a gentle meeting of lips. They both held still, savoring the moment, curiously testing the taste and feel of each other's mouths after their time apart.

Gradually, Clint withdrew. Natasha's lips were parted, and her eyes were closed.

She opened them, and a hint of a smile bloomed across her face.

Clint smiled back, noticing how her eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own.

"Welcome home, Widow."


	4. Glimpses

**Literally I rewrote this thing like 5-6 times before I was happy with it. I'm totally not a perfectionist haha what**

 **It's nice to be posting again! Hope you enjoy! :)**

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He just can't figure it out. For months now, she's been so cold, and then this.

Ever since she arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D., she's been distant and closed off. She's met his warmth with hostility, his courtesy with scorn, his smiles with glares, his openness with silence. Even just last night, when they reached the safe house, his offer to take the couch so she wouldn't have to share the bed was accepted with a mere nod – not a hint of gratitude for his recognition of her personal space.

Not that he minds, of course – her aloofness has never bothered him, and his motive in treating her with respect is not to earn her thanks. His goal has always been more long-term – to get her to get her to open up, to break down her walls, to cause her to become the person he's only caught fleeting glimpses of. He's always known that it will be a long process, but that, eventually, his efforts will be rewarded. And until then, he continues to be warm, courteous, open, and, especially, patient.

And then this morning, he barely had time to sit up on the lumpy couch and switch on a news network, searching for signs of their exploits last night, when she emerged, glowing, from the bedroom, crossed the room, and climbed into his lap, putting her arms around his neck.

And now he's sitting here, stunned motionless as she rubs her face in his shoulder, fingers fiddling with the back of his shirt. His mind is swirling with questions, and he furrows his brow, trying to work out what he's done to merit such treatment from Natasha Romanoff. He just can't figure it out.

Minutes pass, and he remains silent, not wanting to speak and end the moment prematurely.

"You okay?" he asks finally.

She hums an affirmation, resting her cheek on his shoulder as her fingers continue to toy with his shirt.

He pauses, doubtful.

"Sure?"

She straightens then, and he can see a rare smile sparkling behind her eyes, tugging lightly at one corner of her lips.

"Does something have to be wrong for me to hug you?"

He hesitates, unsure how to respond.

She drops his head onto his other shoulder then, one hand idling on his bicep.

"It's a nice day," she murmurs. "Why the hell not."

Her arms go around his neck again, her breath warm against his skin, and at last he begins to understand. It _is_ a nice day – they got the intel they needed, they're well-rested, sunlight is streaming through the windows, and they're waiting in a warm, quiet safe house for exfil to bring them home. Natasha is euphoric. He still has a long way to go before she genuinely starts to open up to him; this is just one of those rare glimpses of the person she tries to keep hidden.

He smiles then, amazed that _he,_ of all people, happens to be the target of this burst of affection. Hesitantly, he strokes a hand down her back, and she melts into him like a cat, warm and soft and relaxed. He finds the end of one of her long curls and fingers it gently; for once, she clearly doesn't mind being touched.

He knows this moment could end at any time; within a few minutes, she'll get up and go back to being the cold, distant, unsmiling Natasha he's used to. He'll continue being warm and courteous and open and patient, and neither of them will reference this day again.

So he closes his eyes, wraps his arms around her, and savors the moment while it lasts.


	5. Easter

**Clintasha oneshot of the month, just how you like it - short, cheesy, and super late!**

 **I just wanted to write an Easter fic and this is what I came up with. Hope you enjoy!**

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"Hi, Natasha."

Romanoff looked up from her report and froze. Clint Barton was standing in the doorway of the report office, grinning at her from behind what looked like a white plastic muzzle, complete with whiskers, a pink nose, and two enormous front teeth. A pair of what could, with some imagination, have been oversized ears were perched atop his head, one of them slightly bent and flopping.

Her expression must have been priceless, because Barton burst out laughing.

"What do you think?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

Romanoff put her head to one side, studying his strange new getup. She wasn't sure _what_ to think – she wasn't really sure what look he was going for. Of course, it those white things on his head _were_ supposed to be ears, then…

"It's a rabbit," she said finally.

Barton looked affronted. "Not a _rabbit._ A _bunny."_

"Those terms are interchangeable."

"Not in this case," Barton disagreed. "I'm a _bunny_ – the _Easter_ Bunny, to be exact."

Romanoff had heard of the Easter Bunny, but knew little about it, other than that it was a fictional character associated with holidays, like Santa Claus. Curious, she said, "Which is…?"

Barton's jaw went slack; the plastic bunny nose dropped off his face. "Do you not know who the Easter Bunny is?"

Romanoff shrugged.

Barton pulled up the chair next to her and plopped himself into it. "Well, the Easter Bunny's… you know… the bunny of Easter. He brings candy to all the good children. Also eggs."

"Rabbits don't lay eggs."

" _Bunnies._ And I know they don't – the Easter Bunny doesn't _lay_ the eggs; he just _distributes_ them."

"Then where does he get them from?"

Barton spread his hands helplessly. "Do I look like an expert on the Easter Bunny's egg-procurement habits?"

Romanoff raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the crooked bunny ears on his head.

Barton grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. Good point. I guess I haven't really thought deeply about where the Easter Bunny gets his goodies," he mused. "Guess I should read up on that. I mean, the Easter Bunny bringing candy is kinda what Easter is all about."

"I thought it was about Jesus."

Bartin shrugged. "Same difference."

"Barton?" Coulson stepped into the doorway, sporting a tie with a chick-and-egg pattern.

"Hey, Coulson." Barton popped the false nose onto his face again and smiled winningly. "What do you think?"

"Fetching," Coulson said. "Commander Hill needs you down the hall."

"Yeah, my briefing's in five minutes, right?" Barton said, lounging in his chair.

"Try five minutes _ago."_

Barton grimaced. "Shoot. I'll just be a minute."

Coulson looked skeptical, but he nodded and headed off.

"Anyways," Barton said. "Back to why I'm here. As the Easter Bunny, it is my job to give you _this."_ He produced a melty bar of chocolate, already opened. "If some of it's gone, blame the Easter Bunny, not me."

Romanoff returned to her report. "Looks like _this_ Easter Bunny gets his candy from the vending machine."

"That hurts me, Tasha. Wounds me deep."

Romanoff rolled her eyes.

Barton bumped her shoulder with his wrist. "Here, take it."

"You're such a child."

"What do I care? Here." Barton slid the candy over to her report. "Save it for later."

It was the first gift Romanoff could ever remember getting. She was pleased, but unsure how to respond.

Barton hopped to his feet. "See you later, Natasha!" he said cheerfully, turning to leave.

Romanoff watched him go, and something that felt suspiciously like a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

As far as first Easters went, this wasn't so bad.

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 **Side note: I'm not sure whether I'll be able to post next month. May is finals month, so I may be too swamped with studying to jot something down. We'll see...**


	6. Appreciation

**Sorry I haven't posted in a while! I had summer school. Algebra 2 is hell. Anyways, the idea for this dumb cute little fic popped into my head a couple months ago, and I finally had time to write it! Here it is! :)**

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"I don't know how much more of this I can take," Clint groans.

He's sitting in a brightly-lit office, sprawled in a chair, a half-finished mission report on the table in front of him. A headache is pulsing behind his eyes, and he thinks for the umpteenth time about his warm, cozy bed and soft blankets.

Natasha sits across from him, her pen moving quickly across the page in front of her. The harsh overhead lights are making her red hair glow, and she tucks it behind her ear, frowning down at her report.

"Three more, Barton," she says vacantly. "We need to finish these in time for the review."

Clint makes a dismissive gesture. "We're wasting our time. They're gonna let you through either way."

"We don't know that."

" _I_ do," Clint says with a shrug. "You're doing good work here, they don't need these reports to see that. They're idiots if they keep you on probation."

Natasha glances at him across the table, then returns to her work.

"Regardless, they'll want these tomorrow."

Clint sighs heavily. "Yeah…"

He folds his arms and leans his head back, closing his eyes. For a moment, the room is silent, apart from the sound of Natasha's pen.

"You know it's after one-thirty?" he mumbles sleepily. "How much longer do you think we'll be here?"

"Longer if you keep talking," Natasha says without pausing her work.

"Ha. Hilarious."

"It wasn't a joke. I'm on my last one."

Clint pouts. "Not fair. You write faster than me."

He hears Natasha's pen pause briefly on the page, then continue.

"You were up early this morning, yeah?"

Clint smiles wryly. "Yeah, you could say that. Coulson wanted me to go over that target profiling stuff before STRIKE left for Burma. Has me running ID confirmation tomorrow morning too. 'S terrific."

Natasha pauses. "Are you on Peru?"

"Nope. Still on Jersey," he grunts. "Just getting started on it."

Another pause.

"Jersey was just in and out. We were together the whole time."

"Yeah," Clint murmurs.

"So our reports are going to look almost identical."

Slowly, Clint lifts his head and looks at her across the table. She's watching him silently, pen motionless on the paper.

"Yeah… what are you getting at?"

Her eyes fall to the page in front of him. "Let me do yours."

"What?" Clint straightens excitedly. He hesitates. "It's against regulation."

Natasha scoffs and pulls the paper toward her.

"You're—you're actually gonna do it?" he says, elated. "Natasha Romanoff, you are incredible. Have I ever told you that? You're fantastic. You're the best."

"Shut up," she says, her pen already scribbling across the page, but there's a pleased edge to her tone.

Clint sighs happily and leans back in his chair. "Nat, I could kiss you."

He casts his mind over the two reports he now has remaining: Peru and Philly. Peru was a more involved job; he'll have to do that one himself. But he and Natasha hardly had to split up at all in Philly. Maybe if he could get her to do at least part of it…

Suddenly he realizes he can't hear her writing anymore. He looks up at her, and finds her staring at him, a curious expression on her face.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks.

"What?" he says blankly.

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

Clint tries to remember the last thing he said, and finally it hits him.

"Oh, _that."_ He laughs awkwardly. "Um… nothing. Nevermind. It's just an expression."

She squints and tilts her head.

"Well, you know," he says, suddenly self-conscious. "It's an expression. Have you… not heard it? It just means, you know, that I really really appreciate it."

Natasha frowns. "You appreciate it so much that you want to kiss me?"

"No! God, no," he stammers, warmth rising to his face. "Definitely not."

Her expression doesn't change.

"Er—not _definitely_ not," he amends hastily. "I just mean—you know—I don't mean—that's not what I mean. I mean, that's not the point. The point is just that I really really appreciate it."

She's still watching him across the table, brow wrinkled, and he tries again.

"See, kissing you or not kissing you isn't really the point," he says quickly "I mean, when I said I could kiss you—well, obviously I _could_ kiss you, but I wouldn't. At least, I shouldn't. Er—not that I _shouldn't_ , but—you know, 'cause if I _did,_ that'd be—well, but I _wouldn't,_ 'cause I mean—"

"Barton. Barton." She stands up, cutting into his fumbling stream of chatter, and leans across the table on her palms. Her face is suddenly level with his, and he can see amusement playing in her eyes.

"Let me settle this once and for all," she says; and then her mouth is on his and she's kissing him, long and slow and deep, and his head is swimming and he can't focus on anything but the taste and feel of her lips.

She draws away, unhurried, leaving him strangely dizzy and breathless. She appears casual and unconcerned, but he notices a faint flush of color on her cheeks, and is relieved to know he's not the only one who's so unexpectedly affected by this. He struggles to compose himself, tries to be as cool as she is pretending to be.

"Okay," he murmurs, once his head has stopped spinning. "Glad we sorted that out."

The corner of her mouth quirks, and then she sits down again, picking up her pen. She has clearly decided to move on, and he decides to do the same, trying to think about something other than the way her lips felt on his.

"Hey Nat?" he says at length.

She looks up, her eyes catching the light.

"As long as you're doing Jersey… do you think you could maybe give me a hand with Philly, too?"

She sets down her pen and folds her arms on the table, smirking at him.

"Maybe," she says. "If you think you would really, really appreciate it."


End file.
